


Like An Animal

by lindt_barton (liznt)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Food Kink, Genderqueer Character, Genderqueer Crowley (Good Omens), Gentle Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Light Dom/sub, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Crowley (Good Omens), Oral Sex, Other, Outdoor Sex, PWP, Submissive Crowley (Good Omens), Trans Character, Trans Crowley (Good Omens), brief allegory for creation, pre-BDSM, tagging smut really makes you confront your own nature
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-01 01:29:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20249911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liznt/pseuds/lindt_barton
Summary: 1 - So they finally have that picnic. And they're both eating peaches, although Crowley is mostly making a mess.2 - The reciprocal wall push. "Be good, Crowley." Crowley nods emphatically, and wordlessly.





	1. Eat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So they finally have that picnic. And they're both eating peaches, except really only Crowley is eating peaches, which is odd because, well- Eating is really more Aziraphale's thing. And Crowley, especially one handed, is mostly making a mess.

So they finally have that picnic.

In a clearing, beside a lake small enough to feel like it was made for them alone. The thigh high grass around them flattened by a thick blanket - pale tartan of course. The hot air made more bearable by the dappled tree shade and the lake water evaporating off their skin.

Less than an hour ago they'd tried swimming, in that lake, for the first time in creation. It had been messy and joyously loud. Though Aziraphale had soon returned to the shallows to lounge, watching Crowley glide around, and then just float. Eyes closed, arms outstretched, chest floating towards the heavens.

But now, Crowley is back in the long dress she's been wearing all summer, the straps thin, the v-neck low enough to expose half of her sternum. Not black, but a deep rich purple, the colour of over-ripe plums, and the stains they leave on your fingers. A fabric that flows in the air but drapes close to her fine body. In kind she has draped herself, stretched out, leaning back on one arm, across the blanket, in the way she often does. In the way she knows looks good.

Aziraphale had been wearing plenty of clothes when they arrived, and then none, and now just linen trousers, in a soft herringbone pattern, and a loose shirt with the top three buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up. A reminder that he's soft to the touch, all of him, but giving Crowley only a bastardly peek.

They're both eating peaches, except really only Crowley is eating peaches, which is odd because, well- Eating is really more Aziraphale's thing. And Crowley, especially one handed, is mostly making a mess. And grumbling. She re-angles the fruit again to try and catch the juice in her mouth, but fails. It keeps running down her fingers, onto her arms. Down her chin, onto her neck.

Peach gone, she grimaces at her skin, soon to be sticky. She doesn't like to be sticky. She sits up and starts rooting in their hamper with her clean hand for something to wipe the other, which is now hanging forgotten in mid-air.

Her neck snaps back to look at Aziraphale when his fingers grip that forgotten wrist. He kisses her palm. Just lips, but then open mouthed with a strong swipe of tongue. Drinking. Crowley's mouth falls open, her breath cool on her lips. Hitching at the deft flicks on the soft skin between her fingers, then along their edges. He twists her wrist, fingers firm, and licks the long trail down the side of her arm, where its pale underside meets freckles, over the finest of her fine bronze hair.

Aziraphale looks up at her. He licks his lips, still hungry, and she licks hers in return. He drops her hand, leans upward to hold her face instead. Thumb on her ear, fingers in her hair, lips on her lips, tongue tasting peach. Drinking her.

By the time she stops tasting sweet, his hand is on her waist, thumb circling, and she's feeding him hums and sighs from deep in her chest instead. He pulls away, his lips now ripened red like fruit, looks down at her as if appraising his work, then angles her head to kiss her jaw, kiss down her neck. Her breath comes faster, and her eyes fall shut to see only dappled shadows, and feel only him. Only his mouth chasing the sweetness across her collarbone, his fingers gliding over the peak of her shoulder, pushing her dress aside so he can kiss chase further still, to where the sweet fades into the salt of the sweat on her sternum. And she wonders how far the juice had fallen, and she wonders if it matters because - she drops a light hand on his shoulder - because he's not eating fruit anymore.

He slides his hand up the back of her leg. His mouth soon follows. A kiss on the inside of her ankle, then as with her arm he trails a stripe upwards with his tongue. But now when he reaches the softest, palest flesh on the inside of her thigh he bites down. She gasps. And flexes and feels herself moving against him holding her down. And groans. His arm snaked around her hip to lay flat on her stomach.

He leads with his nose. Knows the pressure gets to her. And she can feel the deep breaths he's taking as he pauses, over her hole, leaning imperceptibly more heavily into her. Savouring. Now she's one of his thick red wines. Rolling in waves under his hand.

He opens his mouth, sweeps across the folds of her raw skin with a great open mouthed kiss. And a faint dip of tongue inside her. He's warmer than the sun. Now she's a blood red orange, and he's pulling her open, soft juicy insides spread wide. Her knees fall further open, her heel slips from the blanket into the grass, and he takes her ankle firm in his hand.

And with that smart tongue, taking notes - outer lips, inner, the base of her dick, the tip. He fillets her, finds the good parts the- hard parts getting harder, the parts that make her- _Oh. Yes, there._ Make her moan, make her legs twitch. There he pays attention, digs in, takes her apart.

Until she's panting, with a moan on the crest of each breath that he echoes back between her legs. With her fingers flexing in his hair, and the blanket bunching under her as her hips twist under him. Until he has to slow down just a, just a little to hold her there. And all she can manage is, "Az-" before she breaks and rushes outwards.

For a moment she doesn't exist.

Sunlight washes through her, shadows re-form. She hears the lake lapping. Sees the sky. Feels the ground under her shoulders again, and smells the ring of crushed plants around them. She remembers Aziraphale.

He smiles down, seated between her legs, wiping his chin with his handkerchief, mischief in his eyes. "Good?" 

She nods, half laughing, "Good."


	2. Push

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reciprocal wall push, and what it starts...

It's Easter, although Anathema has been calling it something else that burns Aziraphale’s tongue should he say it himself. He, she, Newt, Crowley and Adam are in the kitchen (Adam’s parents are in the living room, blissfully temporarily childless). To varying degrees they are all helping to cook what can only amount to a feast, and even though something about Anathema’s dish is slowly driving her insane it is a scene so heartwarming that everyone involved can’t help but file it away, deep in their heart. 

It is perhaps for that reason alone that Aziraphale catches Crowley, fingers itching, slipping demonic salts and spices into Anathema’s pot every time she looks away. Varying degrees indeed. Aziraphale can’t help but notice that Anathema has started snapping at Newt. So Aziraphale himself waits until no one is looking, or perhaps he nudges their gazes out of the way, to stick a finger into Crowley’s collar and whip him into the hall.

In one swift movement Aziraphale has him through the door and pressed up against the patterned wallpaper of the hall by his avant garde lapels. Crowley is breathing fast, his eyes not on Aziraphale’s eyes, but his lips. Aziraphale says, “Be good, Crowley.” Crowley nods emphatically, and wordlessly. He feels heavier than he ought to, as if he’s relying on Aziraphale to remain upright. To punctuate the order Aziraphale presses him harder against the wall, and then slips back into the kitchen, not waiting for him to follow.

When Crowley returns, a few moments late, he doesn’t speak nor meet Aziraphale’s eye for the next hour. And he keeps his hands to himself for the rest of the evening.

That night, under the two sloped ceilings of the small guest bedroom of Anathema’s attic, Crowley sits on the edge of their bed watching Aziraphale get himself ready for sleep. When Aziraphale realises he turns and holds Crowley’s gaze. Stands solid in front of him, staring, until Crowley looks at his feet. Only then does Aziraphale approach Crowley, drop a hand in his hair and starts scratching lightly over his scalp.

“Do you like this, Crowley?”

“Like what..?” he replies, eyes closed, already far away.

“Being told what to do.”

Crowley’s eyes pop open like he hadn’t realised what’s been happening. “Hgn?” and his mouth starts flapping around searching in earnest for a plausible excuse. He stops when he realises he’s being stared down again, no fingers in his hair. He falls silent, falls still.

Aziraphale says, “Close your eyes, Crowley.” Crowley does. Aziraphale drops his fingers back in his hair. Crowley leans into him. “Now tell me what you like.”

For the next hour, Crowley does.

For everything he doesn’t mention Aziraphale has him clarify what he didn’t really like but could be *tempted* or just hasn’t tried or had always, always wanted to. Aziraphale decides when they’re done, when he’s pleased with the itemised list he has all to himself. And then he says, “Good,” and, “Thank-you,” and when his fingers trail down onto Crowley’s neck he says, “Lie down.” And Crowley does.

Aziraphale kisses him there, on his back and half melted, for an hour or two more, and he would have done more had he not known that the walls in Anathema’s house are rather thin and the bed and the floorboards all rather creaky.

**Author's Note:**

> it took me two months to write this so technically that's how long it took crowley to come


End file.
